


So Spectacularly Wrong

by jasbo



Series: Piffle, Tinkerty-Tonk, and a Rusty Plane [7]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, No Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6513664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasbo/pseuds/jasbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fire_Sign put out a challenge to write fic about sex where "it all goes so spectacularly wrong that it goes right." Well, sticking with my usual proclivities, this is what I came up with.</p><p>This is for you, sweetie, and also for Gaslightgallows because she has been so supportive of this crazy mashup mini-universe. Hope you both enjoy!</p></blockquote>





	So Spectacularly Wrong

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/gifts), [gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/gifts).



Dearest Mac,

I believe I told you in my last letter that I had received an invitation to Brinkley Court that I could not refuse. Aunt P is a darling, but her cohort here in Blighty is a menace. It may only be a fortnight until I am on may way back to Melbourne, but I wish it was an hour.

Brinkley Court is an imposing old pile, and Dahlia Travers is a hilarious and casual hostess – more interested in her horses and hounds than her guests. As you know, this suits me well. The problem with this particular house party is its composition: Aunt P must have primed Mrs. Travers, because there are a hearty selection of what the English aristocracy would term “marriageable” gentlemen here. The usual balance of men and women is observed, but the men are strangely keen while the women (I am sorry to say) are frankly insipid.

So there I was, in a ridiculously large and chilly bedchamber on my third-to-last evening of the house party (why is it always so damp and cold in England? WHY?). I was practicing my barefoot dancing, sadly solo. The males of the house party, though (as I mentioned) keen, were not any of them ones I wanted to engage in a  _pas de deux_. But sleep eludes me when I am tense, so I was left to my own devices.

A soft knock on the door startled (and frankly annoyed) me. I was so close. But that state can be re-achieved, and my curiosity was roused even as my libido was dampened. I got up to open the door only to see one of the men of the party: Bingo Little. “Phryne!” he moaned. “Tender goddess! Could you but please allow me to trespass just a moment upon your time!”

Yes, Mac, he really does talk like this. And if this letter is more florid than my usual style, we will just have to blame Mr. Little’s influence. It is sadly infectious.

Under normal circumstances, there is no way I would entertain this man for a second. His single-minded devotion has been demonstrated to be fickle and thankfully temporary, which is a positive, but if I were to guess at his experience in the boudoir it would be… imaginary at best. I usually have no interest in drilling the infantry in their craft, but frankly I was bored. I welcomed him in and shut the door softly.

Our initial embrace was promising. He pressed himself to me tightly and I was captivated by what I perceived under his trousers. But, oh. Mac. His mouth. The lax lips, the slack tongue. You remember the slobbering retriever that my cousin adored? The dog was the better kisser.

I pushed Mr. Little away with what I thought was firmness. He took it upon himself to splay across my bed in what I suppose he thought was an attitude of seduction. While I usually have no problem with removing men outright from my room and my life, I confess I was concerned that this man would take more than the usual effort to dismiss at this stage of his infatuation. A large cannon might do it, but I cannot be sure.

I retreated to the bathroom and locked the door, taking a moment to splash water on my face before quietly exiting the connecting door to the bedroom on the other side. I had, I thought, a secret weapon: an empty bedroom. Let Mr. Little fall asleep in sprawled abandon on my bed. I was better off taking matters into my own hands.

Feeling my way to the bed, I crawled in quietly and lay on my back, fingers groping for the release that would definitely not come from the caresses of Mr. Little. A rustle from the other side of the bed startled me and I froze.

“A mouse that wears French Perfume,” an incredibly welcome voice rumbled out of the dark. I started to laugh. Jack had refused his invitation to Brinkley Court, citing a meeting with Scotland Yard, a football match, and “no bloody power on earth can compel me” as reasons for avoiding the house party.

“I _am_ wearing less this time,” I told him.

Jack’s kisses and caresses are not to be compared to a canine of any variety.

My dearest love,

Phryne

**Author's Note:**

> Fire_Sign put out a challenge to write fic about sex where "it all goes so spectacularly wrong that it goes right." Well, sticking with my usual proclivities, this is what I came up with.
> 
> This is for you, sweetie, and also for Gaslightgallows because she has been so supportive of this crazy mashup mini-universe. Hope you both enjoy!


End file.
